


Stranger I Know So Well

by thedropoutandthejunkie (elenajames)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Animal Death, First Kiss, First Time, Hair-pulling, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Season/Series 06, Self-Esteem Issues, Soulless Sam Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-21
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-07-16 08:49:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7260745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenajames/pseuds/thedropoutandthejunkie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's not quite the same once he gets sprung from the Devil's Box, and he knows it. When the Campbells prove too comfortable with behaviors he knows, logically, are wrong, Sam heads back to Bobby's, hoping his father-figure and mentor can help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Bobby wasn’t fond of keeping things from Dean - especially something as big as Sam magically being expelled from the Pit - but the boy had pleaded with Bobby, wanting to give Dean his shot at normal and Sam time to come to terms with his fall into and rise from Hell. Sam’d only stayed for barely a day before heading out, bag full of borrowed clothes slung over his shoulder and borrowed truck rattling as it eased down the drive.

 

It’s that same rattling that gets Bobby’s attention now, and he rolls himself out from under the ancient Bonneville he’s digging around in to watch as Sam carefully parks next to his own beat up work truck. Sam looks good - healthy, broad in the shoulders and biceps straining against faded cotton - dragging out his worn duffle and slamming the truck door shut. 

 

“Didn’t think I’d be seein’ you around, Sam. Thought the Campbells had you busy,” Bobby says, practiced calm while his hunter senses tingle. 

 

Sam just shrugs, eyes dropping to the ground as his boot scrapes along the dirt, looking all of four years old. He goes stock still when Bobby’s flask of holy water splashes across his front. 

 

“Something’s wrong with me, Bobby.” Sam’s voice is low, tight and as wary as his posture. “I don’t know what it is, but I -”

 

Bobby waits, but Sam doesn’t seem to have any more words. 

 

“Give me your gun.” Sam’s head jerks up then, and his calculating eyes run over Bobby’s face. “You said yourself, somethin’s not right about you. Give me your gun. Knives, too, while you’re at it. Then we’ll go inside and see what we can figure out.” 

 

Sam stares unwaveringly for a moment again before dropping his eyes and gingerly reaching for where his weapons are hidden. Each get handed to Bobby handle-first until he’s got his hands full of various weaponry. He tucks them into a locker inside the garage and slaps a padlock on it for good measure, keeping one eye on Sam the whole time. The younger man only stands there, bag at his side as he watches Bobby lock up his things. 

 

_ Docile as a tiger, _ Bobby can’t help but think. 

 

They run more tests when they’re back at the house. Silver and exorcisms do about as much as the holy water. Bobby burns sage, sprinkles Sam with holy oil, and even tries a couple of simple spells that would make any number of creatures writhe. 

 

“You’re human, far as I can tell,” Bobby finally admits with a sigh. He’s got a glass of scotch in his hand, cubes clinking as he swirls it gently. “You’re gonna have to tell me what you think is wrong, Sam. What made you come runnin’ back here and away from the Campbells?”

 

Sam sips at his own drink, wincing at the bite he’d never quite enjoyed. “Hunting was too easy.” 

 

“Come again?”

 

“It was too easy,” Sam look up, and then away, fingers gripping his glass tight, “too easy to slice up monsters. Too easy to use civilians as bait. Too easy to shrug my shoulders and walk away when no one got saved but the monster still wound up dead. Knew you wouldn’t like it, and that Dean wouldn’t either. . . but Samuel did. He thought it made me good, the best. And I wanted to like that part, but I just don’t, Bobby. I don’t feel anything.” 

 

“Damn.” It’s all Bobby can think to say. Even with his mind flicking through all the lore he’s memorized, he knows he hasn’t come across anything like this before - assuming it was something supernatural to begin with. For all he knows, Sam could’ve cracked at last, time with Lucifer digging around in his skull having fractured the last bit of humanity inside him. That’s hard to believe, though, with Sam well and alive and talking in front of him, looking as fit as a horse and self-aware enough to admit something is going on. 

 

“I’ll leave if you want me to.” 

 

“No, son. No, I don’t want you to leave. It says somethin’ that you came here to begin with. We’ll figure it out, somehow. Can’t be worse than the damn Apocalypse.” That, at least, gets Sam to smile, and the sight of familiar dimples eases some of the tension in Bobby’s gut.

 

* * *

 

Sam’s obedient, almost too much so. He takes his turns at doing dishes and cooking breakfast without complaint, helping Bobby with research and acting as his second in hunting, and even helping out in the junkyard as much as he’s able to. 

 

Sometimes, Bobby catches him staring too intently, the look in his eyes enough to send shivers down Bobby’s spine. It’s the same look he gives the stray mutt that’s wandered in when he thinks Bobby isn’t watching, and Bobby wonders how guilty he should feel for wondering when the dog is going to turn up dead. Instead, Sam names the dog Bailey and works on gaining the stray’s trust until she’s following Sam around the yard but studiously avoiding Bobby. 

 

“Gonna have to get her tags if she’s gonna stay. Folks can be real sticklers around here ‘bout stuff like that,” Bobby says offhandedly one day. The next, Sam’s gone into town, coming back with a new black collar and a green engraved name tag. Sam puts it on her, careful to make sure it’s not too tight, and the smile he gives as he ruffles the dog’s ears is genuine. 

 

Bobby wakes up to growls and yelping, the shadow of Sam’s back as he disappears down the stairs right when Bobby stumbles out of his room, shotgun in hand. There’s a bloody fox at Bailey’s feet, and the panting dog slinks over to Sam as Bobby watches. Careful hands prod at bones and skin, the dog giving a whimpering snarl when Sam finds a few injuries. 

 

“Go on, girl,” reaches Bobby from across the lawn, and Bailey pads slowly towards the house. 

 

“She alright, son?” 

 

“She’s fine. The fox isn’t, though. Bring me your shotgun.” 

 

In another time, another world, Bobby would’ve been the one putting the injured creature out of its misery; he never liked for the boys to have to do it when it was something small and furry and frightened. Sam takes the gun calmly and doesn’t so much as flinch as he pulls the trigger. He picks up the limp little body and takes it further out to bury it. 

 

* * *

 

Neither of them brings it up, but both Bobby and Sam watch Bailey for weeks after her fight with the fox, wondering if or when signs of rabies will show up. Instead, the dog starts to eat more, belly rounding out and weighing her down. She won’t stay inside for Sam, no matter what he tries, but settles down in Rumsfeld’s old dog house to have her pups. There are six chubby little puppies, tiny and squeaking in Sam and Bobby’s hands as they check them over. 

 

“Can I put an ad in the paper? To find them homes?” Sam asks softly, running a careful finger over delicate puppy ears. 

 

“Sure. Sooner the better.” 

 

Sam’s lips are on Bobby’s and gone faster than the old man can comprehend. The younger man is headed towards the house and Bobby just watches him go, wondering  _ What in the hell just happened? _

 

He spends the afternoon in the shop, wanting the space and wanting to give Sam his own. Bobby fills Bailey’s water bowl before heading in, the tired mother lapping away from inside her home as the pups cry quietly. 

 

Sam’s nowhere in sight when Bobby makes it up to the house. Stew simmers on the stove, fragrant enough to make Bobby’s mouth water. He sets to mixing up biscuits after scrubbing the engine grease from his hands, dropping them by the spoonful on his worn baking sheets. 

 

Sam reappears as Bobby’s brushing butter over the tops of the finished biscuits. He spoons them out two generous bowls of stew while Bobby puts the bread in a basket on the table. 

 

“I’m sorry,” Sam says, words muffled by the bite of biscuit he’s just taken. 

 

“I know I’ve taught you not to talk with your mouth full.” The scold comes on instinct, but Bobby turns red as Sam swallows and apologises again. There’s a beat of silence before Bobby can speak again. “Why’d you do it, Sam?” 

 

“I thought - I thought felt something. For you. Or because of you, I guess. I don’t know.” 

 

“You ever felt that way before?” A part of him really doesn’t want to know, but Bobby feels like he has to ask. 

 

“N-no. I - never. I’m sorry.” Sam curls in on himself a little, trying to make himself look smaller than is possible for a man his size. His fist is tight around the spoon in his hand, and Bobby find himself reaching over to brush over tense knuckles, trying to get the grip to relax. 

 

“You ain’t in trouble, Sam. M’not mad, just . . . confused, I suppose. I’m not exactly a prize, you know.” 

 

The quip gets Bobby a small smile, and he’ll deny the little flutter in his chest when Sam looks up at him through those ridiculous bangs until the day he dies. 

 

* * *

 

“Quit your starin’, Sam.” 

 

“Sorry.” 

 

Bobby puts the wrench down, wiping his hands on the shop towel that’s not much cleaner than his skin. Sam’s just outside the door, ostensibly playing with Bailey’s pups. The weight of his gaze has been prickling along Bobby’s neck for a while, and one of the heeler-speckled pups has wandered in to sit at the old man’s feet. 

 

“Nah, son. You ain’t.” Bobby scoops up the little one, scratching behind baby-soft ears while the pup dangles trustingly from the old man’s hand. 

 

“He likes you. You should keep him.” 

 

Once again, Bobby lets the change in topic slide, lifting the pup up and turning him so they’re face to face. A sloppy licks runs right over Bobby’s face, hitting his mouth just enough to make him sputter. The pup just wags his tail while Bobby glares at him, and the man can’t help but sigh. 

 

“Just this one.” 

 

He walks up to the house, the pup in hand as he pretends not to see Sam’s smile. 

 

* * *

 

Drinking’s better when there’s no cause for it. Bobby can sip and read an old book until the letters on the page won’t sit still anymore. It’s not like the times he’s trying to drown out memories of Karen or one of his boys burning in Hell. 

 

It’s also not anything like having the warm weight of Sam on his lap, pinning him to the ratty couch so the wood along the bottom digs into his back. 

 

Sam’d been rough, nipping teeth and forceful hands, but Bobby’d put a stop to that quick. A fist in the younger man’s hair had bared his throat to the older hunter, and left them both panting into the quiet. Gradually, Bobby’d allowed Sam closer until their mouths just barely brushed. 

 

“We go at my pace or not at all. Got me?” 

 

“Yes, Bobby.” 

 

Sam’s heavy, all muscle from working and hunting. He’s suntan warm and smells like sweat and dirt. It’s more masculine than anything Bobby thought he’d ever find attractive, but it’s making his cock twitch more than the renewed press of chapped lips against his own. 

 

The grip Bobby has on Sam’s hair makes it easy to control the pace, and he can’t help but feel a little smug when he discovers each tug makes the younger man’s hips jerk. Bobby keeps him in place just like that as he undoes Sam’s jeans with one hand and strokes him through the fabric of his boxers. 

 

“B-Bobby, please. I’m gonna-” Sam whispers, eyes wide and desperate. 

 

Bobby just grips a little tighter and thumbs over the wet patch over the head of Sam’s dick. “Go on, boy.” 

 

Something in Sam’s expression twists then, like the pleasure hurts even as his cock throbs beneath Bobby’s fingers, pulsing come into his boxers. Bobby loosens his grip on Sam’s hair then, dragging that hand down his back to rub along it soothingly. Sam looks stunned and exhausted all at once. Bobby coaxes him down even if Sam’s far too tall to really rest on Bobby’s chest; the young man curls up enough to make it work and they stay there until both their legs have gone to sleep. 

 

“Do you  want me to - I mean I can-” Sam mumbles suddenly, trying to sit up as he fumbles at Bobby’s fly. 

 

“No, Sam. You touchin’ me ain’t a requirement. Next time, if we both want it.” 

 

Sam huffs a little laugh then, curling back up along Bobby’s front. “Next time, huh?” 

 

“Shut up.” 

 

* * *

 

Cramps in his legs wake Bobby in the middle of the night, and he heads down the stairs when falling asleep proves to be useless. He’s not expecting to find Sam reading at the kitchen table and still wearing the clothes he’d been in all day. 

 

“Jesus, son, it’s 3 am. You ain’t been to bed yet?” 

 

Sam gets that shifty look again, the look that means he’s been keeping something from Bobby, and all the older man has to do is narrow his eyes before Sam starts speaking. 

 

“I don’t sleep. I don’t need to and I thought I’d just -” 

 

“Hold up. Everyone needs to sleep.”  _ Everyone human, anyway, _ is what Bobby doesn’t say aloud. 

 

“I know,” Sam says softly. “I just can’t seem to. It’s like . . . Hell is right there, Lucifer is  _ right there _ , Bobby and I really don’t need the sleep anyway. So, I thought I’d research and try to figure out how to fix me.” 

 

“Fix you.  _ Fix _ you? Sam, there ain’t nothing wrong with you. Did you come back a little different? Sure, but anyone who’d had Lucifer scrambling their brains would. You’re not broken, for fuck’s sake.” 

 

“You don’t mean that.” Words so quiet they’d be inaudible if the house weren’t silent. 

 

“I do. C’mon. I need a nightcap and maybe a pain patch, then we’re gonna see about this sleeping nonsense.” 

 

Sam follows Bobby quietly into the library, accepting his drink with a little nod. It’s not more than a finger or two, just enough for a little burn, and then they’re heading upstairs. 

 

“Go get somethin’ to sleep in. You ain’t sleepin’ in my bed with jeans on.” Bobby leaves a surprised-looking Sam behind as he heads for the bathroom. There’s a box of pain patches calling his name, and he smooths one over his lumbar. 

 

Bobby’s not surprised to see Sam hovering just outside his room. He tries not to admire the lines of finely-boned feet and long legs; instead, Bobby just goes right for his bed. Sam settles gingerly beside him, holding perfectly still once the bedside lamp clicks off. It’s not graceful, but Bobby wriggles a hand under Sam’s shoulder until the other man gets the message; he rolls over, long body curled up alongside Bobby’s, head tucked along Bobby’s neck. 

 

Sam’s still asleep when Bobby wakes up. 


	2. Chapter 2

Bobby knew he was taking a chance, leaving Sam by himself at the salvage yard. The kid was getting better with the customers and the cars, able to tow cars back and do minor fixes on his own. Honestly, it was more the hunting community that Bobby was worried about, but he needed to make the run to town to meet up with the hunters passing through on the interstate. 

 

He knew rolling up that something was wrong. Bailey was growling at the door, and Jax - Bobby’s pup - was nowhere in sight. Silence had settled over the house, and Bobby inched through the living room. A single, pained sound reached his ears, making it hard not to just burst in. 

 

What he found was a bloody Sam bound to a chair, Castiel standing in front of him. Now, he’s got a shotgun full of iron and salt aimed dead at the angel’s chest. 

 

“You know you cannot hurt me, Bobby,” Cas says calmly. 

 

“No, but filling your ass full of rock salt’ll make me feel better.” 

 

“I did not harm Sam,” Cas raises his hands placatingly. “I heard his plea for help, but -” 

 

“If you’re so all-fired helpful, then why’s he still bleedin’?” 

 

Cas sighs, brow wrinkling as he stares his thousand-yard stare. “I sensed . . . something strange about Sam. I had intended to investigate once I had rid the house of intruders.” 

 

“Strange how?” Bobby’s gut clenches, wondering how much the angel knows about how Sam is different, now. 

 

“I am not certain.” 

 

“But you got suspicions, don’t you.” 

 

“I do,” Cas says plainly. “Determining if I am right, however, can be a painful process.” 

 

“Heal him and untie him. We’ll talk it over before you start doin’ anything to him.” 

 

Cas sighs but reaches out to touch Sam, healing his injuries in a blink. He steps aside to allow Bobby to untie the younger hunter, pulling him into his arms just as Sam startles awake. 

 

“Bobby,” he breathes, suddenly clinging and voice tight. “There were- they-” 

 

“They’re gone. Cas got rid of ‘em. Healed you right up, too.” Bobby just holds Sam until the near-painful grip of Sam’s hands in his shirts slackens and some of his shaking ceases. 

 

“Thanks, Cas,” Sam says softly. 

 

“You are quite welcome, Sam. I am glad to see you well.” 

 

Warm breath huffs across Bobby’s neck as Sam laughs wryly. He pulls back enough to look into Sam’s face. 

 

“He thinks he can tell us what - what’s going on with you, Sam. But it’ll hurt, probably somethin’ fierce.” 

 

“Okay.” 

 

Bobby blinks, taken aback by Sam’s quick agreement. 

 

“Bobby I’m - I know you don’t agree but I’m  _ wrong _ and I know it. And I  . . . I need to know why. Maybe I can fix it, maybe I can’t but at least we’ have some idea of what we’re dealing with?” 

 

“Alright. I don’t like it, for the record, but it’s your decision.” 

 

“Cas?” 

 

The angel looks dubious, casting a nervous glance at Bobby, but the older hunter backs up enough to give him room to work. It’s hard to stay still as Cas rolls up his sleeve, harder still when he offers Sam one of the leather belts he’d been bound with to bite down on. Sam’s screaming and tortured face make Bobby want to break something or pick up the shotgun again, but he grits his teeth until Cas pulls his hand out of Sam’s chest. 

 

“His soul. It is gone.” 

 

Bobby catches the hint of guilt in Cas’ tone, and he has the angel pinned up against the wall before he realizes he’s moving. “What the fuck did you do, Castiel.” 

 

Cas’ gaze flicks from Bobby to Sam and back before it drops to the floor. “I thought I could free him. Pull him from Hell as I did with Dean. I underestimated what it would take. I - Bobby. I truly thought I had brought all of him back, not just his body and mind. It seems as though his soul remains in the cage.” 

 

It says something that Cas doesn’t even fight when Bobby punches him. The angel just licks at the tiny bead of blood at the corner of his mouth and looks at the hunters mournfully. 

 

“Can you get it? Can anyone?” 

 

“I can try.” 

 

With a flutter of wings, Cas is gone, leaving Bobby gripping air. 

 

* * *

 

Bobby puts out a call to the hunter network: no one is to drop by unannounced. Some, he’s sure, will know why, and may even resent the restriction; others will just respect his wishes and turn a deaf ear to the rumors surely filtering through the community. His phone rings about as much as it always did, and more hunters are sending emails that Sam answers more often than Bobby does. 

 

“Do you think it makes me a monster?” Sam whispers in the dark one night, while their bodies are still cooling from their most recent round of sex. He swirls his fingertips through the hair on Bobby’s chest, so gentle it makes the older hunter ache. 

 

“‘Course not.” Bobby keeps his tone firm, using the arm curled around Sam’s shoulders to pull him in close. 

 

Sam just hums in response and scoots in. His cock is soft, tacky with come and drying lube as it rests against Bobby’s thigh. It thickens the longer they lay there, and Bobby mourns his lost ability to get hard again that quickly. Rolling over, he grabs the lube from the bedside. It feels odd to just spread it on his thighs, but Sam gets with the program quickly, pressing up against Bobby’s back. 

 

“Oh God,” gets breathed in a warm huff over the back of Bobby’s neck when he tightens his legs around the thick cock between them. Sam’s hands run over Bobby’s stomach, fondling his soft cock and balls. He grunts, an animalistic sound that never gets old. Bobby didn’t think Sam - sweet, shy, puppy-eyed Sam - would be such a rough lover, but he manages to soothe some of that roughness, smooth down Sam’s sharp edges. 

 

Reaching down, Bobby uses his palm to rub over the tip of Sam’s cock when it pushes out from between his thighs. It gets him there faster, Bobby’s learned, and sure enough warm come is splashing over the older hunter’s legs and fingers in a matter of minutes. 

 

“Thank you,” Sam murmurs, brushing a kiss along Bobby’s neck. He swipes up most of the mess with one of their shirts, and licks Bobby’s fingers clean, looking more content than Bobby thought anyone could while eating their own come. 

 

* * *

 

Everything goes to shit with a single phone call. Sam’s helped out enough in the garage that Bobby doesn’t think anything of letting him answer the business phone; anyone who wants something hunting-related either calls the house phone or any one of Bobby’s cells. 

 

So when Sam’s face goes flat and pale after he picks up with a simple “Singer Salvage,” Bobby knows shit has gone sideways. Sam doesn’t move at all when Bobby comes over to take the phone, and there’s already yelling come from the handset before he’s got it up to his ear. 

 

“- me what the fuck is going on!” 

 

“Hello to you, too, Dean,” Bobby says dryly, heart sinking in his chest.

 

“Bobby. Was - was that Sam? Was that fucking actually Sam?” 

 

“Yeah, son. It was. You wanna turn the volume down before you deafen me more than I am already?” 

 

Silence weighs heavy between them, and Bobby’s half sure Dean’s going to just keep on yelling. Instead, there’s a tiny, quiet sigh from the other end. 

 

“How?” 

 

“Our friendly, neighborhood angel.” 

 

“And you didn’t - God, Bobby, you didn’t think I’d wanna know?” 

 

“Damnit, son. Of course I did. But you don’t have the whole story, alright?” Bobby sighs, reaching out to touch the shaking hand Sam’s resting on the desk. 

 

“Fine. I’ll call you back once I’m on the road, and you can give me the whole story then.” 

 

Dean’s gone before Bobby can protest. He just tucks the phone back in its cradle and tugs Sam awkwardly into his arms. 

 

“He’s coming here, isn’t he?” 

 

“Yeah, Sam. He is. C’mon. We’ll fix you some tea before your brother calls back; the rest of the paperwork can wait ‘til later.” 

 

Sam’s got his head tucked in Bobby’s lap when Dean calls back, tense even as the older man runs his fingers through Sam’s hair the way the boy likes. Midway through the call, Sam slips out to make supper and part of Bobby aches as he watches Sam walk away.

 

* * *

 

Dean shows up bleary-eyed and tired in the early morning, most of his anger burnt off in the long drive from Lisa’s. There’s a tense moment before Dean pulls his brother into a hug, eyes closed tight to fight off the tears Bobby knows would be there otherwise. 

 

“Jesus, Sammy.” 

 

“I know. I’m sorry, Dean. I just - I didn’t know what to do.” 

 

Bobby watches as Dean pulls back, looking every bit of his brother’s face over before glancing in Bobby’s direction. 

 

“He’s doin’ good. Good as can be expected, anyway.” 

 

“And Cas?” 

 

“He’s workin’ on it. Checks in once in awhile, but nothin’ new yet. C’mon, boy. Sam made breakfast. We’ll get some food in you, then you can sleep. Your bed’s all made up.” 

 

Despite food and coffee, Dean still nearly dozes off at the table. Bobby shoos him upstairs as soon as he finishes his plate. Together, Sam and Bobby clean the kitchen, heading out to the garage to start on the day’s work. Sam’s got invoices to send and payments to file, while Bobby’s got a junkheap of a minivan that refuses to start no matter what he does. 

 

“Not sure this things got an ounce of life left in her,” Bobby grumbles when the van sputters and dies again for the umpteenth time. 

 

“Mind if I try?” Dean doesn’t look a whole lot better for the handful of hours of sleep, but Bobby recognizes the signs of a nightmare all too easily. 

 

“Go for it. Lord knows I need a break.”

 

Hot summer sun beats down as Bobby steps outside. Sam’s leaned up against the side of the garage, heedless of the tall grass and weeds around him as he pets Bailey and sneaks a begging Jax bites of his lunchmeat. 

 

“You’re gonna spoil that dog, son.” 

 

Sam snorts, looking up tiredly at Bobby from his resting spot. “Like you’re not going to spoil him anyway.” 

 

“You mad I let him come?” 

 

“No. No, I’m - just scared, I guess. Hard to tell.” 

 

“M’not gonna let anything happen to you, Sam.” 

 

“Yeah, Bobby. I know.” 

 

Sleeping is harder than it should be without Sam in his bed, Bobby finds out. They’ve separated for the duration of Dean’s stay, the boys sharing the same room they’ve always shared just down the hall. Dean gets up looking worn, but Sam looks exhausted for someone who swears he doesn’t need to sleep. 

 

The house settles into a semblance of their same-old, same-old routine. There’s tentative conversation between the Winchester brothers, tension just enough to make Bobby’s skin itch, but he refuses to be displaced in his own house. 

 

Dean gets the minivan running after a couple of days, and finally heads out after a week. Bobby can tell Sam is torn about his brother leaving - sad to see him go, but relieved to have their space back. He promises to call while Dean’s got him wrapped up tight in a hug before he heads back out to the Impala with his duffle bag in hand. 

 

Sam’s on Bobby as soon as the rumble of the Impala fades away. 


	3. Chapter 3

It’s not a deal Bobby would make, but it’s not his call, either. Cas had searched long and hard and came back with only this: Death could bring back Sam’s soul, but at the risk of Sam losing his mind from memories of Hell. 

 

Sam is terrified - as much as a soulless person can be terrified. Bobby had shoved Dean and Castiel out the door once they started to push, and Sam’s hackles started going up. Now, he’s hovering near the stairs like a cornered dog, eyeing Bobby warily. 

 

“Nobody’s going to make you do anything, Sam. It’s your body, your choice, alright?” Bobby approaches carefully, hands held up placatingly until he can almost touch Sam. 

 

“Don’t think Dean agrees with you there. He wants his little brother back, his darling little Sammy, and he’d kill me to do it.” Bitter words, bitten between teeth but Sam doesn’t move, not yet. 

 

“I’m not gonna let that happen. You hear me, Sam? Not under my roof are they shoving whatever’s left of your soul back in you without your say-so.” 

 

There’s a tense moment when Bobby isn’t sure if Sam’s going to swing at him or run or both, but he steps into Bobby’s touch, all but collapsing into the older man’s arms once contact is made. 

 

“Please,” Sam whispers. “Please, Bobby, I don’t - I don’t want it. If it’s that damaged, if the rest of me is unsalvageable . . . I’d rather live like this than be a vegetable.” 

 

And yeah, that’s a hard point to argue with, even if Bobby felt like arguing. He calls up Dean once Sam’s stationed in the kitchen, steadily chopping onions and peppers even if his hands are shaking as he works. 

 

“Bobby, I’m sorry,” Dean blurts as soon as he picks up. 

 

“You oughta be. You and that angel both. Soul or no, Sam’s still Sam and I’m not gonna let you kill the boy in some fool attempt to save him. Now, you both are gonna get gone and stay that way til you find somethin’ else. We’ll work on it on our end. Call if you get something.” Bobby feels guilt about being so harsh on Dean the moment he hangs up. He stares at the cell in the palm of his hand before snorting at himself and hitting the redial.

 

“Yeah?” Dean sounds small, tired, and damnit.

 

“I’m sorry, too, son. I know you’re worried about your brother, and I know you want what’s best for him but he’s still a grown man. You gotta take his opinion into account, too.” 

 

“Yeah I’m - Jesus. We’ll figure something else out. I’ll let you know if we find anything.” 

 

“Alright. And Dean? You be careful, hear? Don’t do anything stupid.” 

 

Silence, and then a wet-sounding chuckle. “Yeah, Bobby. I hear.” 

 

“Is he really going to listen?” Sam’s there, like a ghost right behind him and Bobby hasn’t been spooked by the boy since the early days of his stay. 

 

“Seems like. You got the chili started? I aim to be workin’, and I’d rather have you helpin’ than be on KP duty.” 

 

Sam shifts restlessly, tense for a moment until his eyes drop to the ground and he nods. “Just needs put together.” 

 

Bobby makes to move past Sam and takes the opportunity to pin the other man against the wall. A brief press of lips, held long enough to get Sam to relax, and Bobby slips into the kitchen. No matter how many times Sam watched, he never quite got Bobby’s mix of seasonings right for the chili or got the consistency just the way they like it. 

 

“You really mean it?” Sam murmurs, wrapping his arms around Bobby from behind. 

 

“You’re still you, son. Missin’ a piece or two, but you ain’t the first.” 

 

Sam hums, watching Bobby cook. “Can you not call me son when I’m waiting to drag you to bed?” 

 

With a snort, Bobby leans closer to the pot, hoping he can blame the blush on his cheeks on the heat from the steam. 

 

* * *

 

Dean crash lands with Cas in tow, both of them looking worse for wear and the Impala in need of a serious facelift. Bobby doesn’t manage to get a word out of Dean until Cas is safely ensconced in the panic room. He collapses at the table, bloody and bruised, readily knocking back the whiskey Bobby slides across the table to him. 

 

“We found it,” he rasps. “A scroll Cas got a lead on. The angels and Crowley, they - they were pissed. Chased us for a while, but Death. He bought us a little time, let me get him out.” 

 

“What was it? What’d you find?” Bobby tries not to sound eager, but Dean’s glance tells him he’s failed. 

 

“A way to fix it. Pure angel grace can heal a soul, like the diluted stuff can fix a body. Cas - he understood it better than I did, swore it was safe, but as soon as Death put it in him, he was out cold. I - I couldn’t wake him up.” Dean chokes at the end, covers it with a sip from his refilled glass. 

 

The silence is covered by Sam’s arrival with the first aid kit. He looks wary, glancing between Bobby and Dean, but follows Bobby’s unspoken order to get to it. Bobby watches carefully as Sam sits, angling his chair towards Dean. To his relief, there’s no hesitancy from Dean in letting his brother patch him up. He winces as alcohol gets swiped over open cuts, but none of the visible wounds on him are bad enough to need stitches. Sam smoothes butterfly bandages over some, sure hands working quickly. 

 

“You got any others?” 

 

“Nah. Bruises mostly. Ribs smart, but they’re not broken. Thanks, Sammy.” 

 

It doesn’t escape Bobby’s notice that Sam fumbles putting the supplies away just then. His posture shifts, face melting into something softer. 

 

“‘Course, Dean.” He fishes out a couple of painkillers, not Bobby’s strongest but more than enough to take care of some bruised ribs. Sam falters then, unsure of how to proceed, and it occurs to Bobby how little social interaction he’s had with anyone outside of Bobby himself in months. 

 

“I’ll start supper,” Sam says at last, movements confident again now that he has this self-assigned task to focus on. 

 

Bobby and Dean drink in relative silence then, watching Sam work with the casual grace he’s gained during his time in Bobby’s kitchen. He’s making stew, something they all associate with comfort, and he promises to come get Dean when it’s done as the older Winchester slips away to check on Castiel. 

 

“Will you make biscuits?” Bobby startles a little at Sam’s words, but hauls himself up anyway. 

 

“Yeah. Sam? You did good. It’s gonna be alright.” For just a moment, Bobby allows his hand to rest at the small of Sam’s back, rubbing gently before he heads to the pantry to dig out flour and baking powder.

 

* * *

 

Dean spends most of his time in the panic room with Cas over the following weeks. Bobby has to drag him out to eat and shower; sometimes, Sam manages to coax his brother outside in the fresh air or at least into the garage to work with them. It becomes clear to them both, however, that Cas means a lot more to Dean than any of them realized - maybe, even, more than Dean had realized up until now. 

 

Even though they’re not certain he needs it, Bobby still hooks Cas up to an IV a week into his coma, changing the bag when it runs out. His face thins a little, but not dangerously so and there’s no waste to be taken care of, so it’s the only step they take toward maintaining the angel’s body. 

 

Dean thins a little himself, drinks a bit too much until he finally breaks down in Bobby’s study. Sam’s like a ghost in the background as Dean sobs about losing Cas and the rest of his brother’s soul, about feeling helpless and useless and any number of things until the tears run dry and his sobs weaken into mere hiccupping breaths. Only then does Sam step in, kneeling by his brother’s feet in an echo of the way he’s sometimes kneeled at Bobby’s. His cheeks are tear-stained but his expression earnest. 

 

“He’ll wake up. And we’ll put my soul back where it’s supposed to be, Dean. You got us this far; Cas is safe and my soul is, too. You just have to hang on a little longer, okay?” 

 

Trembling fingers reach out to touch Sam’s cheek, and Bobby almost looks away from a moment between the brothers more tender than any other he’s witnessed. Dean brushes the faint tear tracks from Sam’s face and murmurs, “Yeah. Yeah, Sammy. Okay.” 

 

Dean eats a little more and spends more time with Sam, after that. It’s almost like he’s remembered the other part of why he sits his silent vigil by Cas’ bedside; not only is he waiting for the angel to wake, he’s waiting to find out the fate of his little brother’s soul. As a result, Sam’s more relaxed, his smiles coming easily and his hands less desperate in Bobby’s bed at night. 

 

Despite Bobby’s misgivings, they’re still intimate when they can be. Sam will slip in well after Dean’s gone to sleep; half the time, he only wants to cuddle before heading back to his own room to sleep. The rest of the time, he coaxes Bobby into trading handjobs or a quiet bout of sex. Sam takes bottom while Dean’s around, much quieter when Bobby is fucking him than the other way around. It feels like a risk they shouldn’t take, but neither of them are willing to give it up. 

 

Thankfully, the night Cas finally wakes up is a night Sam had elected to sleep in his own bed, so when Dean comes tearing up the stairs, they don’t have to scramble to right their clothing. There’s some obvious confusion on Dean’s  face about why his brother is in Bobby’s room, but that gets washed away over his excitement that Cas is awake. 

 

Sam and Bobby trail Dean into the panic room. Cas is bleary-eyed but awake, sitting propped up on a mound of pillows. He’s unhooked from the IV and - though he still looks a little worse for wear - there’s more color in his cheeks than there has been since they arrived. 

 

“Sam. Bobby.” 

 

“Hey, Cas. It’s um. It’s good to see you.” 

 

Cas offers a tired smile at that. “It worked, Sam. It worked, and I will recover. Your soul is here, whenever you’re ready for it.” 

 

Sam doesn’t mean to run. He really doesn’t, but he’s halfway up the stairs before he realizes what he’s doing. Bobby catches up to him as he slows down. Whirling, Sam pins the older man between his body and the wall, catching Bobby’s mouth and clinging to him desperately. Strong hands grip his hips, sliding up his back and dragging him in tight. 

 

“You’re okay, Sam. It’s alright. You don’t- Jesus, son, you don’t have to. I said we weren’t gonna make you, and we won’t.” 

 

“I think I have to,” Sam whispers desperately. “God, I think I have to Bobby but I’m-” 

 

“You don’t have to be scared, Sammy.” Dean’s voice makes them both jump, and they pull away from one another. There’s no judgement or anger on his face, though, just a bit of sadness mixed with pain. 

 

“You know.” The words get blurted out, Sam unable to get his brain ahead of his mouth, and he can hear the quiet suck of Bobby’s breath next to him. 

 

“I know. It doesn’t . . . well, it does matter but I’m not upset or anything.” Dean just shrugs, uncomfortable, nervous, and it makes Sam’s skin itch. “It was your choice, and you’ve gotta have your reasons.” 

 

Sam feels wrong-footed, dizzy almost. He’s grateful for the sudden, tight grip of Bobby’s hand on his elbow. A beat, two, three, and Dean is serious. Bobby is serious. Pros and cons and everything in between race through Sam’s mind almost faster than he can process. 

 

“Dean can - can we have a minute?” 

 

“Yeah, Sam. Whatever you need. Just don’t leave this time, okay?” It twists something in Sam’s gut to see the look on Dean’s face just then, so brief they could all almost deny it happened. 

 

“I won’t.” 

 

Bobby draws Sam back in as soon as Dean heads down the stairs. Sam’s taller, but folds himself enough so that he’s wrapped tightly in Bobby’s arms. 

 

“I’m afraid I’ll forget. If I’m not Sam, or not enough of him, Bobby I don’t want to forget this. I don’t want to forget  _ you. _ ” 

 

“Hey,” Bobby grunts, unfolding his arms from around Sam so he can grip the younger man’s face between his palms. “None of that. We talked about this.” 

 

“Yeah, but -” 

 

The rest of Sam’s words are muffled by Bobby’s mouth, and Bobby can feel when Sam sighs and relaxes. Their kiss stays soft and sweet and it jerks at something in Bobby’s gut when they finally break apart. There isn’t much left to say then. Sam curls his fingers into Bobby’s and they make their way back downstairs. 

 

Cas and Dean are conversing quietly, close enough together that Sam would probably poke fun at them any other time, just to see Dean blush. Instead, he clears his throat quietly, still clinging to Bobby’s hand as the pair turn to look at him. 

 

“Can we . . . are you strong enough to do this now, Cas?” 

 

“I am. It will actually take very little effort on my part at this point. Your soul knows where it belongs, Sam. It will want to return to you.” 

 

Cas reaches out, not quite beckoning. Sam can’t make himself let go of Bobby, even when the first touch of his finger’s to Cas’ palm sends an electric buzz up his arm. It grows and pulses and the room is spinning with blurs of color and shouted voices, but Bobby’s hand never lets go. 

 

One beat, two, and Sam’s jerking awake, shoving himself upright until dizziness hits him again. He lands against a solid chest, and several hands land on his body. Dean’s worried face comes into focus, and Sam realizes that Bobby is talking. 

 

“- damn fool plan, Sam. Damnit, answer me-” 

 

“M’here.” Sam’s mouth doesn’t quite want to cooperate and his limbs are tingling. The faint taste of sulfur lingers in the back of his throat, but it’s fading with every breath he takes. “M’right here, Bobby.” 

 

“He just needs to adjust. Give him a moment.” Cas. Dean. Bobby. Right. Thoughts zip through Sam’s mind, there and gone but he registers them all, a daunting puzzle slotting itself into place. He doesn’t even realize that he’s crying until calloused thumbs gently swipe the tears away. 

 

“Bobby.” 

 

“Yeah, Sam?” The older man leans over him, face upside down from his angle, brow crinkled in worry. With trembling fingers, Sam reaches up to touch a stubbled cheek. 

  
“I remember.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The end. Oh no. There will be more for this 'verse, probably, and definitely more for this pairing. If you have headcanons, [I'd love to hear them.](http://thedropoutandthejunkie.tumblr.com/asks)


End file.
